


fall down seven times, stand up eight

by okaytlyn



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: F/M, Hair-pulling, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Trichotillomania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:39:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaytlyn/pseuds/okaytlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes these hands, and he holds them in his with the firmness that overwhelms her, that roots her even when the roots are no more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fall down seven times, stand up eight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwanshim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwanshim/gifts).



> impt!!:  
> the fic hints at a body-focused repetitive disorder called Trichotillomania where the person suffers from the urge to pull out their own hair either consciously/unconsciously, usually due to stress, depression or idleness. it's mentioned subtly throughout the whole drabble but never with any mentions to actual hair. if this is triggering to you, please close the tab! also this is dedicated to gwanshim, the hero for writing that junsol trich fic

Her hand tangles into the depths of the forest, of what’s left of the forest, and it forages within. Rooting out imperfections, ripping it out of the foliage, and diving back in to rinse and repeat.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, really. It just, happens.

She doesn’t know she’s knee-deep into the deforestation of her being, until she’s uprooted out of her unconsciously constructed bubble into real life, by a voice that sounds like what she hopes could be home.

 

“Hey.”

“Wait- uh, yeah?”

 

Junhui takes her hands, the hands with the callouses that tell a story no one knows but him, the hands that clamber at the ugliness within, the hands that push away, that pull out. He takes these hands, and he holds them in his with the firmness that overwhelms her, that roots her even when the roots are no more.

 

“Don’t.”

 

With one word, the bubble is burst, but the world is opened yet again. She’s too scared to venture out, but she doesn’t ever say it, she’s holed herself up in a cave, ready to go out and explore physically, smile plastered on her face as if reality were an old welcomed friend, but heart beating unwillingly fast against her chest. She feels the non-existent eyes staring at her, at her hands, at her scalp, oh, her scalp, and the gazes burn scorchingly through her head in her mind’s eye.

Junhui ruffles the forest with his hands, long, thin and smooth, his hands that are the opposite from everything hers are – calloused, short, tiny,  his hands that hold her world, his hands that may be too small for her body, but just big enough to ground her and give her the sense of security that encapsulates her anyway.

 

“Don’t worry, no one saw. Lesson’s over, wanna grab something to eat?”

 

She nods, and takes the first step. The ocean calms in her heart, the resfeber of anxiety and anticipation smoothing itself out. She, like a long-distance traveller, tempted to cut every cactus in sight for the water within, she, like the camel in the desert without a guide, waylaid from the path of life, in search of vegetation to pluck out and chew on until the desert is no more, has returned to her oasis. She has remembered once again that there is a rest stop in this endless journey, endless struggle, and maybe one day, she can make the rest stop home.

But even as temptation creeps upon her unconsciously, her hands moving into the forest every day, every few hours, the oasis tells her that she can return, the rest stop tells her that she can rest in its embrace, and that after rest, she can have the energy to set out once again to fight against the temptation to pull the tall trees, the low bushes, the ugly shrubs from the detritus.

He tells her it’s alright to falter. Cold turkey has never worked for her, anyway. Recovery won’t be instant, but rather, a battle of falling down seven times, and standing up eight. Maybe her hand will tangle itself in the forest next week, or the next day, or even later during H2 Math lectures that drive her into boggling oblivion. But he tells her that even if she finds it there, in search of flaws to eradicate, she can resist the urge to succumb. She can be caught in feeling the strands curl tightly around her fingers, but she can let go too. She can learn to set herself free from the cycle slowly.

So she does.

 

“Yeah, let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Junhui tells her that her forest is beautiful. He tells her that it’s growing back. One day, it’s going to grow back to its former untouched glory, this she hopes. But he tells her that even in this state of flux, of earnest coalescent change and earnest unintended failure to resist the temptation to uproot the shoots, of her effort, it’s captivating enough.

 

* * *

 

The amount, the type, or the height of the trees do not define the forest. The spirit of the forest,  trying its best to not drown amidst a bustling pressure-cooker metropolis surrounding it -  this is what makes the forest beautiful for what it is.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to scream @ me if ur confused ok i did this at 3am  
> and hit me up if you've heard of trichotillomania i would really love to hear your opinions about it :)


End file.
